The Long Road Home
by Hiro Protaganist
Summary: The Survivors of the Lion War struggle to find peace in the aftermath.
1. Chapter One

Chapter One - Situations Unresolved

Ramza woke in the quiet of deep night as a cool breeze blew through his tent.

It was not very dark, due in part to the moonlight that seeped through the flaps in the tent. He could see the candle he'd accidentally left burning as he'd fallen asleep, a pitiful puddle of wax on a saucer by his head. He normally didn't waste expensive things like candles, but he was exhausted. His whole cadre was exhausted.

Ramza sat up, scrubbing his hands through his blonde hair. His body ached endlessly, it seemed, but sleep was fitful for him. After they'd returned from the City of Death, he thought he would sleep for years. As it turned, he couldn't even sleep for hours.

He slipped out of his tent, shivered slightly despite the sultry summer heat. Even at night, it was uncomfortably warm. No, what made him shiver was the dead quiet around the camp. After Murond, after the City of Death, after the haunted silence his company had spent six days passing through, Ramza didn't think he ever wanted to spend his days in such dreadful quiet. He slipped back into his tent and sat down upon his cot. After a few moments he lay down, and immediately heard a voice outside his tent.

"Sounds like I'm not the only one awake," he heard a woman say, and his hand fell quickly to the hilt of the long-sword that lay beneath his cot. "Can I come in?" Agrias Oaks asked, and Ramza sat up, raking a hand through his hair.

"Yes, of course…" Ramza said, snatching up a plain white shirt from where it lay on his footlocker. He slipped his arms through the sleeves as she entered, but didn't bother with the buttons. "Something on your mind?" He fumbled under his bed for a lamp and the box of sand that held a handful of still-smoldering coals. She waited until they lamp was glowing dimly and then spoke.

"I want to talk to you about what comes next. About what we do next. About this fool plan of yours-"

"Most of those people out there still have lives to lead-"

"And you don't?" She asked sharply.

"-as long as they don't mention my name where a Church Examiner can hear."

"If you send them away and the Church finds you- you can't fight off an army alone."

"I can't fight off an army with a handful of men and women, either."

"And if you run into someone who recognizes you?" Her retort was sharp, her voice tinged with unease. She stood, came near him before crouching in front of him and taking his hands in her own. "There's no end to the list of people who want you dead."

"There's nothing I can do to change that now," Ramza replied softly.

"I won't let them have what they want," Agrias said, her mouth a thin line, "particularly because you want to see your 'friend' again."

"He is not so bad as you think he is," Ramza said, suddenly uncomfortable about their sudden proximity. Her hands were smooth, not nearly as callused by years of swordsmanship as Ramza's own were.

The situation became very awkward for the squire. "He's had plenty of chances to kill me," Ramza continued, "plenty of times my end would have saved him endless trouble. He hasn't, and I…. as suspicious of him as I am, I still think he is my friend." He drew his hands away with a shake of his head, and tugged his shirt closed.

Agrias chuckled mirthlessly, a cold sound that made Ramza wince. How long had he refused to consider pursuing her? It had been a year, at least. There were always more enemies to face, more battles to fight. Ramza had always considered himself a romantic, but he also knew that some things had to come first.

Would things have been different between the two of them, had he not been obsessed with his quest for Truth?

_Stop being so dramatic,_ he told himself, _and bid her good night._

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "We should probably go our ways for the evening. We'll have a long day ahead of us.

"Yes, well," she said, standing, "I suppose there's tragedies the world over. Comparatively," she said, her smile as cold as a winter morning, "there's worse than this."

"There's that," Ramza said, standing himself. She twitched her shoulders, as though she were about to turn and leave, but did not move further. In the pale lamplight, when it seemed for a moment that there was nothing in the world but the two of them, she looked inviting. Tempting was the word a priest might use.

Unable to resist, he leaned toward her, intent only on a brush of the lips. It was something he'd thought about for months, stayed awake thinking about. But she leaned forward suddenly, threw her arms around his neck, pressing her lips against his in a long, fierce kiss.

His resolve vanished.

For a lifetime they stood there, wrapped in one another's arms. Finally, they drew apart, their hearts beating feverishly. "I've loved you for a very long time," she whispered against his shoulder.

"I love you," he said, breathlessly. She smiled, turning her face up to him, and he kissed her again, deeply and longingly. When they drew apart again, he bent down and whispered, "I love you, and I'm sorry it took so long to tell you."

"There, now," she said, smiling, her face aglow in the pale lamp-light. "Isn't that better?" She uncoiled her arms, and before he could even protest she disappeared from the tent. "Get some sleep," she said, "Dawn breaks in three hours.

Ramza stood there, for a long time, wondering what it was that had happened, his body refusing to move for fear the moment might simply have been a dream that would end the moment he twitched a muscle.

He sat down on his cot, snuffed out the lamp, and lay down again in the darkness. The sultry summer night made it hard to fall asleep, but he was glad when he did, for a hundred reasons or more.

* * *

Laina and Everett were just returning from their morning patrol when Ramza strode out of his tent, wearing the mussed white shirt he'd fallen to sleep in. His trousers were just as wrinkled, and he was sure his hair was a mess, but he felt disinclined to care. 

The morning bustle of the camp was pleasantly noisy, and Laina and Everett's casual attitude said that they hadn't seen a living soul (or an undead one) inside the valley or outside. That made Ramza feel more than a little better.

Mustadio stood up, from one of the nearest campfires, and handed him a plate. "We've been keeping this warm for you," the young mechanic said with a grin. Ramza took the plate and sat down between Orlandu and Beowulf, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. Orlandu waved to him, but Beowulf was too caught up in talk with Rad to notice Ramza.

"You slept in, I see," Orlandu said, nodding approvingly. "About time you took a rest."

Mustadio nodded in agreement. "Yeah, especially after the way you've been pushing yourself. Did you sleep well?"

"I slept terribly," Ramza said around mouthfulls of food. "And honestly, after two nights in the City of Death, I'm not sure I ever want to sleep again.

"I slept like a baby," Mustadio said, "aside from hearing the couple in the tent next to me declare their love for one another at some ungodly hour of the night."

Ramza froze, but Beowulf turned toward the mechanic with irritation. "If you want, you can move your tent across the camp. But stop complaining about Reis and I," the Magic Knight said, leveling his fork at Mustadio.

"Easy there, Captain," Mustadio said with a grin. "I don't mean anything bad by it."

Ramza had a second helping, and actually took time to enjoy the food. Occasionally he'd sneak glances at Agrias, at another cookfire with Lavian, Alicia and Reis. They weren't giggling. Then again, Agrias didn't succumb to the sort of gossip that some men and women fell prey to.

That was one of the things he liked about her, come right to it.

By the time he'd finished his breakfast, half the tents were packed, and several people were already packing up the pots and pans.

He climbed onto one of the wooden chocobo carts, raised his hand, and waited for the camp to fall silent. It did so in a fairly short amount of time. He hadn't officially told the group his plan, but he had the feeling word had gotten around.

"This is a dangerous time," Ramza said, "because the Church will want someone to blame for what's happened to them. I have a feeling they'll want me. There's… fair chance they'll get me, before I find safety anywhere, and I don't intend to let anyone

"So here's my solution," Ramza said. "We'll split into several groups- four people apiece. You can decide on the groups as you please, or you can even go your own way, but the plan is to meet in a small town a week's ride east of Limberry Castle called Ityca. If we decided to stay there, we stay there. If not, we can move elsewhere as a group or… vanish. However, I'll be taking Boco and going to Igros, where word has it Delita's gone for the time being."

"Why do you have to go see Delita?" Mustadio asked, frowning. "He's basically stabbed anyone in the back he's had to to get where he is. He'll probably do the same to you."

"That's possible," Ramza said, "but I have to take that chance. He's my friend, and I have unfinished business with him- and something that might be able to keep him and Ovelia safe from the church."

Inside his tent, he started to pack his saddlebags, deciding to let the majority of the extra equipment go in the carts with the rest of the company. He packed his sleeping roll, his sword, and enough rations to get him five days out. He heard the flap rustle, and he knew he it was behind him. "Agrias, look, I'm not changing-" he turned to see Meliadoul, arms folded across her chest, eyebrows raised. "Oh, I thought- sorry. I thought-"

"It's fine, it's fine. I just…" She hugged herself, sighing. "I really don't think this is a good idea. Neither does anyone else. Do you really need to do this, Ramza?"

"Yeah, I really do," Ramza said, running a hand through his hair.

"It's a dangerous world out there, Ramza, and Delita is a dangerous man. Just… watch yourself." With that, Meliadoul slipped out of the tent, possessed of the same dangerous sense of grace that marked Orlandu and Agrias.

He packed up a few more things before Agrias did enter, with Alma beside her. The two of them folded their arms across their chests and gazed down at where he knelt beside his cot, tucking a pair of daggers into his boots.

"Let us go with you," Alma said, and Agrias nodded, her eyes narrowing.

"Under no circumstances," Ramza replied, standing. "I might as well take a whole squad if I took even one of you.

"So take a whole squad," Agrias replied.

"I know Delita, I've known him as long as you," Alma pleaded. "Take me with you. I can help."

"Under no circumstances," Ramza said again. "I won't let either of you accompany to Igros, and that is the last thing I have to say on the subject. Alma, you would increase the chance of us being recognized, and Agrias- you're the second most experienced member of the group. The others need you."

As he pushed past, Agrias took him by the arm, her normally stony face creased with worry. "Please don't do this." She whispered, refusing to beg but unable to simply let him go. He laid one hand upon hers, smiled, and left the tent.

As he walked toward Boco, he had the feeling he'd had when he went to Zeltennia to warn his brother, when he went to Orbonne to stop Vormav, when he'd left Igros to find the Hokuten agent in Dorter.

He had the feeling he'd felt when he'd decided to chase after Princess Ovelia when Delita had captured her.

The current was flowing again, and he'd taken his stand.

* * *

The young rider who entered Igros was nothing out of the ordinary- Igros was a great city, once the capital of a great nation before it had fallen under the banner of Ivalice, hundreds of years before. There were riders aplenty in Igros, even riders with swords, and if he drew his cowl over his face- well, he didn't stay in any one part of the city long enough to draw notice. When he found the inn he wanted, he passed a gold coin to a young lad and drew back his cowl. His hair was black, almost unnaturally black, and his skin was smudged with heavy soot. He knelt down beside his mount, a fidgeting chocobo that was spirited enough to have been a wild at one point. "Do you know where the Hokuten encampment is, boy?" 

The boy nodded to him, and the rider drew a letter from his coat. He handed it to the boy, drew ten more gold coins from a purse at his waist. "I'll give you ten more crowns gold if you find a Black Sheep Knight there named Delita Hyral. Give him that letter, and he'll give you ten gold coins. Savvy?" The boy nodded vigorously, and darted off with the letter clutched in his hand, hair whipping in the wind. The rider tied up his chocobo and slung his saddlebags over his shoulder. The innkeeper who greeted him was fat and bald, but the rider knew he was honest. "I'll need a room for the night," the rider said, "and my mount stabled. What's the price for that?"

"Ten crowns gold," the man said, and the rider's eyes narrowed. "It's a fair price," the innkeeper insisted, "with the war and all."

"The war's over," the rider said, pointing to his mount as he opened his purse again. "but even so, that's fine."

The rider sat before the tomb of Balbanes Beoulve, to the right of which were the tombs of Balbanes's two wives, and his two eldest sons. The rider heard footsteps behind him, but made no move to turn around. "I'm not sure whether to curse your father or bless him. Sending me off to Gariland Academy… I never dreamed it would lead me here," Delita Hyral said, moving smoothly and surely in his gold burnished armor. Again, he walked with that cat-like grace that seemed to mark the really talented swordsmen the rider had met.

"I'm a little surprised at what's happened to me," Ramza said, "but I'm not terribly disappointed." He stood, turning to face his friend, running a hand through his black-dyed hair. It wasn't much of a disguise, but it was enough; even Delita blinked in surprise.

"It was stupid to come here," Delita said, walking up to the edge of Balbanes' grave. "You shouldn't have come."

"I've heard a lot of people telling me that," Ramza said, a bit wistfully. Delita snorted.

"You should have listened. You don't know how much the Church wants you right now. They're looking for someone to blame for this whole affair, and you're their number one candidate. I'm not strong enough yet to protect you from the Church- I may not ever be."

"You'd be a lot stronger with the Germonik Scriptures in hand," Ramza said, pulling a book from the satchel at his waist. Delita inhaled sharply, and the squire smiled wickedly. "You'd be able to take the throne, keep the Church's influence out of Zeltennia. That's what you want, isn't it? To marry Ovelia. To take the throne," Ramza said, unable to keep the note of bitterness from his voice. Delita's gaze darkened.

"Yes, that's what I want," Delita said, squaring his shoulders to the squire. "And I'm going to do it, too. Not just for power. Not just because I love Ovelia- which, for some odd reason, I do- but because this country needs a strong leader. This war has divided the rich and the poor more starkly than any war in history, and I'm tired of seeing people who can't eat because they don't have money, who can't make money because there are no jobs. You want to see a civil war again? You will, if this kingdom doesn't start to close its fist on nobles who barricade themselves in their keeps while the rest of the world starves. Yes, I want power," Delita said, stepping closer to Ramza, "and I'm going to take it, because I don't trust anyone else with it. Especially not someone born to nobility, who doesn't understand that people are people, regardless of birth."

Ramza stared at him, defiantly, before he put a hand on the Holy Knight's shoulder. "Then be a good king," Ramza said softly, offering the book to Delita. Delita looked down at it, frowning.

"If you give me that book," Delita said, "there's nothing to keep me from stabbing you in the back the moment you turn around. I could give you to the Church and keep the book, and I'd be stronger than ever."

"You could," Ramza said, "just the way you could've given me to Zalmo and let the Church have me then."

Delita chuckled, took the book from Ramza's hand and threw his arms around the squire. "Take care of yourself, brother," Delita said. "It's a dangerous world."

"I keep hearing that," Ramza said, grinning. He turned and walked away from his old friend, from one of the only people who might have understood him.


	2. Chapter Two

Two

Marquis Ventram was not in a good mood.

In the last week alone, his family holdings had gone from nil to enormous as the estate of Dycedarg Beoulve passed into his possession, along with the lands and titles that went along with it. Marquis Ventram's family had lost their estate during the fifty years war, two generations before, and all of a sudden Marquis Ventram's nobility meant something again. That should have made him deliriously happy.

The civil war had ended with the deaths of the Black Lion and the White Lion, and trade and mercantilism would be winding up to full speed again. Rumor said that Princess Ovelia was betrothed to a young Black Sheep Knight and that she would be placed on the throne by the grace of God.

That should have made him pleased, at the least.

But Marquis Ventram was a soldier, and a damned fine one; he might not have been an Orlandu Durai or a Balbanes Beoulve, but he was a fine strategist and cunning as a man could be. However, he was also stuck in Igros, tending to his new holdings, re-establishing order in the city. There were refugee camps scattered around the city's walls, and the streets themselves were filthy. Dycedarg Beoulve had spent so much time in Prince Larg's court that he'd let his lands fall apart; unusual, for a man who had such an eye for detail.

Dycedarg Beoulve's whole situation had been unusual at the end. The Church had officially announced that their half-brother, the Heretic Ramza Beoulve, had murdered both Dycedarg Beoulve and his brother, Zalbag; but household rumors at the Beoulve estate said that nothing was as it seemed.

The whole thing was a mess, and it was up to Marquis Ventram to sort out the loose ends.

"Marquis?" his steward said from the door to his office, making him turn to face the man. "Marquis, a courier from the Glabados Church just arrived with an official letter." He held it out for the Marquis, who strode to the man and snatched it from his hands. Without bothering to reach for his letter opener, he examined the seal for cracks and then ripped the envelope open. He hastily unfolded the letter and scanned it, scrutinized it, finally looked up at his steward with a wolfish smile.

"Saddle my chocobo, and get twenty men mounted," Marquis Ventram said, thrusting the letter into his steward's hands. "Ramza Beoulve was seen leaving the city, headed to the Beoulve Chapel, probably to the graveyard there." Ventram swept past his man and on toward his armory. He was finally in good mood.

* * *

Ramza darted through the woods, out of sight of Delita Hyral and the graves of his brothers and ancestors, until he came upon Boco, tied up to a fallen branch near a burbling creek. "Come on, fella," Ramza said, brushing back the crest of feathers on Boco's head as he untied him. "Time to start home, buddy." Ramza mounted the bird, and wound him along the same path through the woods he'd taken to get there. When he came at last to the road, he emerged in the midst of thirty mounted men, all armed, bearing the sigil of a family that the squire didn't recognize. 

"Hold!" one of them yelled, from the front, and Ramza drew his mount up short, brushing his black-dyed hair away from his eyes. The man in the front was thin and sinewy, clothed in a minimalist coat and breeches that marked him a career military man. But his saddlecloth was embroidered with a family sigil that Ramza didn't recognize. "Identify yourself," the man said, and Ramza trotted Boco a couple steps closer, calling forth the story he'd made himself memorize.

"I'm Drake Bobbins," Ramza said, "a craftsman from Dorter, looking for work in Igros."

"What craft is it you practice?" the lanky man demanded, "And what were you doing in the woods off the road?"

"I'm a carpenter." Ramza answered. "My workshop burned to the ground in Dorter, and I'm looking to make a fresh start. As for the woods," Ramza said, smiling, "I was taking a moment of reflection."

"So deep in the woods?" their head inquired.

"I didn't want to be caught with my pants down," Ramza said with a chuckle. Some of the men laughed at that, and the squire leaned back casually in his saddle. The lanky man nudged his chocobo a few steps forward, leaning over the head of his mount.

"Then explain to me," the lanky man said, "why a carpenter needs a sword, and is mounted on a chocobo fit for any nobleman's stable? Or why you speak like someone from Igros if you're from Dorter? I am Marquis Ventram, and I am detaining you for questioning-" Ramza's mount lurched into motion and his sword hissed from his scabbard as the squire launched down the road. The riders lost little time swinging their mounts around and into motion after him, digging their heels under the wings of their choccobos.

Ramza flew down the road, even as the ground around him was occasionally pelted by arrows. He knew that road better than anyone, had traveled between Igros and Gariland more times than he could count. All he had to do was make it to the North river, this side of the Mandalia Plain.

He only hoped his mount could make it.

* * *

Marquis Ventram was not a religious man, but he wasn't an idiot either. With the deaths of the two great princes of the realm- no, before that; when those princes took up arms against one another, the Glabados Church became the real power in the realm. 

The Marquis didn't know precisely what it was Ramza had done to earn himself a black mark in the Church's dusty tomes, but he had. And what of the whispers around Beoulve Manner, that Dycedarg had orchestrated his father's death as well as his brother's? Rumors proved nothing, but the there was a little too much similarity between the different rumors.

But the Marquis wasn't an investigator, and he certainly wasn't an arbitrator between heretics and the Church. The Marquis was going to catch Ramza Beoulve and turn him over to the justice of the Church not because he thought the man was a heretic or because he held a grudge against the man, but because that was what the Church wanted; and as long as the Church held the power in the land, that was what Marquis Ventram wanted as well.

It was only a matter of time until Ventram caught up. After all, a scrawny chocobo like the one the Beoulve rode couldn't possibly hold up against war-trained mounts. Not for long, anyway.

It was just a matter of time.

* * *

Delita Hyral dismounted in the midst of the Nanten camp, and he handed his reins to a squire before ducking into a canvas tent flanked by scarred soldiers in battered armor. They nodded to him, respectfully and dutifully. These men had been with him through a number of battles, and he knew for a fact they would follow him wherever he led them. 

Inside, a beautiful woman with long golden hair sat in a wooden chair, reading a book with tiny script and beautiful scrollwork around the edges. She glanced up at him, looked him up and down questioningly for a moment, and then returned to her reading. "You were gone longer than I expected," Ovelia said softly, turning the page.

"I was seeing an old friend. The brother of a friend of yours," Delita said distantly, as he dropped into a chair opposite her, putting his feet on a stout wooden table. Ovelia looked up at him sharply, laying the ribbon page-marker along the inner spine of the book. "He didn't mention your old bodyguard, but I was flipping through a book he gave me and I found this." He drew a letter from his pocket, sealed with green wax and addressed to Ovelia. He held it out to her, and she took it excitedly.

Ovelia tore open the letter- she'd been refused the use of a letter opener for so long that she rarely considered them- before poring over the contents of the letter. Delita stood, trudging over to a large map table to pour himself a glass of port. There were letters addressed to Delita from Agrias and Ramza, and one addressed to him in a hand that looked like Cidolfas Orlandu's. Delita shivered unconcsiously. There was a man who had made Delita tremble. There was a man who had made armies tremble. He carried his glass back to his chair and sat tiredly, watching the nuances of Ovelia's face as she read.

How many marriages of convenience had there been in the history of the kingdom? Not just in the royal family but among the nobles and knights, the numbers were probably uncountable. Had he grown up the son of a servant the way he'd been born, he would never have considered marrying for any reason but love; but those days were behind him. He smiled thinly at the thought that his well-hidden love of Ovelia would be considered bizarre, even perverse by some members of the court. Ah, his unrequited passion for the woman who would be his wife. The thought made him chuckle, drawing a quizzical glance from Ovelia.

"Is there something funny?" She asked, firm but gentle with her inquiry. He waved dismissively, taking another gulp of port.

"I was just thinking of how much I love you," Delita said sardonically, and her face darkened. She bent back over her book, mumbling derisively, which made Delita chuckle again. He would have to find peace in his work; it didn't seem he would find it anywhere else.

"I wonder if the Church knows what I have in store for it," Delita said distantly, asking himself once again what Ramza would have done. _I got the book and the throne for my trouble in this war, and a wife who thinks I have a heart of ice,_ Delita thought to himself. _What did you get, Ramza?  
_

* * *

Ramza could hear the distant roar of the North River that separated the Mandalia plain from the lands more suited for agriculture. Boco panted heavily; he'd stumbled several times, and the first time he fell it would be the end for them both. But if he could hold on for a few more minutes, they would both be safe. Ramza leaned in, cooed to the animal; Boco ignored him, as per usual, but he kept running, kept pounding out the rhythm of escape. Laina, a white mage who'd run with him since time out of mind, knew a spell that could drain the fatigue right out of a tired animal, but Ramza didn't know much of magic. What he did know of magic he would use shortly. 

If he made it that far.

The main bridge across the North river was thirty miles to the west on the road southeast to Gariland. That was the nearest and easiest crossing, excepting the ferry farther east. Chances were, they wouldn't know the ferry; if they couldn't cross the wooden bridge ahead, they would be two days away from catching up to him, enough time for him to be out of Gariland with fresh supplies and well on his way to Dorter.

There was never enough time, was there?

Boco galloped over the crest of a small hill, and the the decrepit wooden bridge he had been praying to see appeared before him. The river flowed swiftly, wider than he remembered, and he smiled. He stood in the saddle, pointing to the bridge, and shouted at the top of his longs the incantation of the most powerful fire spell he knew. Laina could've cast Flare, could have turned the bridge into an inferno with a word, but Ramza was not Laina.

Two more fire spells and the bridge ahead of him roared and crackled as thick black smoke curled into the air. There was a narrow path through the fire, but Ramza wondered if he'd done too much too early. There was no time to worry about it, though, as Boco charged bravely through the gauntlet.

Ramza yelled from shock as the bird darted across the flaming bridge, the sound of the fire unfathomably loud. Halfway across the bridge, Ramza turned to cast one more fire spell and saw his opponent, the rail-thin man with the chiselled face and the haunted eyes. For a moment they shared an understanding, a mutual unwillingness to surrender, and as a cloud of flame exploded and hid them from one another, Ramza knew he had not seen the last of the man.

The bridge crackled, groaning pitifully under its own weight as its structure was eaten by fire. Ramza screamed, urging the bird forward and off the bridge, and when they reached the other side he hurled himself from his mount, coughing hoarsely as his mount wobbled and stopped. Boco's eyes were filmy and half-closed, and he shook terribly; Ramza hoped he never had to push the bird so hard again, but knew better than to make promises. He leaned back against a thick boulder of granite, swallowing great gulps of air, when he heard the unmistakeable sound of an arrow burying itself in the ground. Ramza opened his eye, and a second arrow lodged itself in the ground, and a third in his shoulder.

The squire howled angrily, fumbling across the ground to snatch up Boco's bridle. The bird hissed at him angrily, but he jerked it behind one of the many boulders that littered the southern side of the North River, the northeast edge of the Mandalia Plain. He put his hand to the wound in his shoulder, and gasped as it sent a thick wave of pain through his torso.

Men shouted and more arrows fell, but they soon faded into the distance and the sun began to sink toward the horizon. It was forty miles to the bridge, and thirty or so to the ferry; they couldn't reach him with their armor and mounts until evening the next day. The squire grumbled painfully, fumbling into the chocobo's saddlebags for the materials to dress his wound.

Something in him said the man might turn back, now Ramza had crossed the border of jurisdiction, but the squire doubted it.

* * *

"I really don't care," Agrias said, acidly, as Mustadio explained the group's need for another break. "We haven't come half as far as I wanted to get today, and we're too far behind schedule. We push on until sunset." 

"We may have to make camp and cook dinner in the dark, then," Mustadio said unhappily, folding his arms across his chest.

"Then we'd better find the latterns before we start pitching tents and making campfires," Agrias said, already turning to spur her mount forward. Ramza had parted with them a week before, and she'd been in a bad mood the entire time. Several times Mustadio and Everett entreated Orlandu to intercede, but the old man seemed happy to leave matters in Agrias's hands. In fact, the old man seemed to approve of how she was running things.

Mustadio grumbled and fell back into place, and the group started moving again, wagons rolling over the rough rutted road and chocobos squawking quietly. They hadn't seen a soul in days, except for a group of bandits trying to make a coin or two. As Mustadio fell back, ruffling the feathers of his black chocobo, Laina and Everett appeared from the underbrush, more exhausted than anyone else and still most likely to wake up first and be gone before most people had eaten breakfast. "Nothing ahead," Everett said, "except for a quiet clearing, a couple miles further. Might make a good campsite."

Agrias grunted, nodding assent and waving the two back into the ranks of men and women. Everyone was feeling the strain; they'd pushed hard after Ramza had left, and there was still a week's travel left before they reached Ityca, where they would hopefully find the other three groups waiting for them. Meliadoul should have reached the town first, and Beowulf second. If Agrias had made the sort of time she wanted, Rafa and Malak should've reached the town around the same time. As it were, Agrias had to fight off the paranoid worry that she would get there and find no one. It was a worry that was silly and irrational and kept her up more nights than it should have.

And it would, until she reached Ityca and found everyone there. Then she would only worry about Ramza.

* * *

Delita sliced open the first of the three letters and read it. It contained little that Ramza hadn't already said, but contained a warning of sorts, and a cypher for contacting the Squire. Delita memorized it, repeated it over and over to himself, and then drove himself to toss the letter onto the fire in the center of his tent, positioned just below a circular opening at the peak of the canvas. It would have been nice to have something of Ramza's to keep around, a memento from a friend he might never see again, but Delita knew how dangerous such trinkets could be, and it was more important that he protect his investment than that he give way to foolish sentiment. Delita turned his attention to the second letter. 

It was a warning from Agrias Oaks, former bodyguard of Princess Ovelia and lieutenant of Ramza. It overtly warned him about ill treatment of Princess Ovelia, and more subtly warned against betraying Ramza. After reading it three times, he concluded that she must be in love with the Squire, if they were not actually lovers, and tossed it into the fire. The third was a treasure.

It was indeed written by Cidolfas Orlandu, and it warned him away from interfering with Ramza Beoulve's life and with politics in general. But after the caveat about court life, it passed on advice to him- about ruling, about espionage, about which battles to walk away from and which battles to fight madly. Delita read it four times, before excitedly uncapping a bottle of ink and blotting out references to Ramza. He slipped the letter into the pages of the Germonik Scripture, and fitted the book into the pocket of his coat. He would have to find a better place to keep it, but for now that would do.

The Holy Knight stood in the darkness, poured himself a glass of port, and drank it down quickly. "God save the king," he said, wondering again what Ramza had gotten out of all his struggle, wondering whether he himself had chosen the right path.

He leaned over the table, blew the candle out, and felt his way to the bed in the dark.

His dreams were not pleasant.


	3. Chapter Three

A Simple Introduction By The Author - This chapter is a bit longer than the other two, and has little action; I think the story stands strong enough on its own to merit the break from adventure and excitement. This story is actually the second advent of a piece I wrote a long time ago and tossed out, dissatisfied. I enjoy the (enormous) changes I've made to it, and I hope that anyone who stumbles in here enjoys it. Reviews are always welcome (especially if they help me correct those pesky little spelling/grammatical errors that seem to slip through no matter how many times I re-read). Thank you for your cooperation.

* * *

Three 

Ramza and Boco made slow progress across the Mandalia Plain toward Gariland; it had rained during the night, and between the damp and the thunder, they had gotten little sleep during the night. They were both exhausted, and no village they had passed through had potions to help the Squire handle his wound, not even the over-night potions most military squads kept in stock between battles. But he was not dead or dying, and he could still walk, so walk he did.

He had considered bypassing Gariland altogether; after all, if he could find just one village with a chemist, he would be able to get to Dorter on the supplies he had. However, the more and more he thought about it, the more it made sense for him to stop and stock his supplies. He had thought briefly about joining a caravan as a guard, but decided against this; even thieves and smugglers would turn him in for the reward the Church was offering.

_If you can't be famous,_ Ramza thought to himself, _be infamous._

Boco squawked feebly, and Ramza could tell by the way the bird was hanging his head that he was tired. Ramza ruffled his feathers a bit, earning him an irritated look, but the two of them continued down the small road, nothing to listen to but wind and their own footsteps. As they crested a hill, the came on a hunched figure, fists planted on his hips, staring at a wagon axel deep in mud. His tunic and breeches were splashed with mud, and it was evident to Ramza that there had been a fierce battle to get the wagon unstuck and that the gentleman had lost. The chocobo yoked to the front squawked and shuffled irritably, which made Ramza chuckle slightly. "You look like you've had a rough day," Ramza said, which made the man whirl around suddenly.

As the man examined him, Ramza realized how suspicious he must have looked; ratty old clothes, a sword at his waist, a wounded shoulder and an exhausted chocobo his only visible possessions otherwise. The man looked him up and down before he spoke. "Reckon you've had a worse day than I have," the man said finally. Ramza unbelted his sword belt and wedged it under his saddlebags on Boco.

"Think I can give you a hand with the wagon?" Ramza asked, rolling up his sleeves. The man looked him up and down again before he nodded. The squire took up a spot next to him, at the back of the wagon, and braced himself against the frame. The man did the same before counting to three; the two of them grunted and heaved, and finally even the yellow chocobo yoked to the front of the vehicle strained and pulled. Between the three of them, the wagon groaned and finally slid up and out of the muddy rut, easing forward a few feet before it stopped.

"Thank you, young man," the older gent said, "I might not have gotten that out by my lonesome."

"It was no problem," Ramza said, "a pleasure to help."

"Can I offer you anything? I am on my way to Pont Mar, a little village south of Gariland. If you're going to the city, that will take you all the way there."

"I could probably use the ride…" Ramza said, rubbing his chin, "but I don't want to impose on you."

"No imposition," the man said, "just a ride. You look like you've pushed that bird harder than it needs to go anyway." Ramza hesitated, but retrieved Boco and tied him up at the back of the wagon. The old man climbed back up to the driver's seat, and Ramza climbed into the bed of hay. "What's your name anyway, kid?"

"Drake Bobbins. Retired soldier," Ramza said sardonically, which earned a laugh from the man. As the cart started to roll, the old man spoke.

"My name's Carn Hugh. I owned a little farm east of Igros, but I have recently decided I did not like the man I was paying taxes to, so I am heading down to Pont Mar, where my two oldest boys have some farmland. It's a long story, how we got so spread out."

"Recently, as in the last few weeks? Or recently as in the last couple years?" This earned a laugh from the old man, who pounded his leg. Ramza obviously did not understand the joke.

"A little bit of the latter, a lot of the former. Marquis Ventram is a military man, but he is not a military man as old Balbanes was. He is a blind follower, and he only knows about rank, privilege and power. Wouldn't know the right thing to do if he read a library of books about it. Then again, Dycedarg was no Balbanes his own self. Started to get right crazy before he died," the old man said, opening up a kit bag to retrieve his pipe, "but wars do that to a lot of people."

They talked for a long time, about the old man's sons and their wives, about how he had decided to leave behind the land he had tended for ten years. They talked about the Lion War, and the refugees. After a while, they lapsed into silence, listening to the rumbling of the wheels and the rustling of the leaves on the trees.

"I was a sergeant," the old man said suddenly, "riding home with Balbanes himself, the Heaven Knight. He was like a statue," the old man said distantly, "carved out of stone. We used to joke about getting Pure hammers when he was too quiet. He would laugh a little at that. He had a sense of humor." The old man filled his pipe with tobacco, started tamping it as Ramza grew quiet. "I remember telling me once that his oldest boys were as clever as could be, born strategists. He had a third son, by another wife, who wasn't quite as bright as his brothers; he used to say the boy had a heart of gold. Not stupid by any means, but he wasn't clever or manipulative the way his older brothers were."

To Ramza's surprise, he puffed the pipe alight without ever retrieving an ember or a matchstick; he turned to regard the squire, smoke drifting from the corners of his mouth between breaths.

"Never sat well with me, the things the church said about that boy. When Dycedarg took the high seat of Beoulve, I knew exactly what old Balbanes had meant when he said 'clever'. He had the mind of a conqueror, not a leader. Not like Balbanes at all, that one. Mind like a wolf, and a heart to match. Crazy times, I tell you," the man said a bit whimsically, as Ramza became very still. His sword was still with Boco, but he was already thinking of what he might have to do to win a fight against the man. It seemed likely the man was a mage of some sort, but that did not mean he was not strong in hand-to-hand combat.

However, before he could think anymore about how a fight might go between himself and this man, the man continued his speech. "Something tells me the Church has its finger in another dirty scheme. I tell you, the Church may claim to save men's souls, but old Balbanes saved my life more times than I can count. I'll take his opinion on that third son," the farmer said, puffing away at his pipe, "as long as you don't mind."

"Seems like everyone's been able to guess who I am," Ramza said glumly, and the man laughed.

"Seems like you haven't noticed that most of the black's washed out of your hair," the old man said. "Not to mention you've been running around in your homelands, where most people can recognize a golden-haired Beoulve when they see one. You remind me of your father. I can see why he liked you. I'm willing to bet you'll tell me the truth if I ask you what happened to your brothers."

Ramza hesitated, but finally spoke. "Dycedarg poisoned father, and poisoned brother too, in a sense. I feel remorse for killing Dycedarg, but after what he had done to our family… I don't feel regret."

The man nodded, turned away. "I'm sorry," he said. "Balbanes deserved a better end."

"He died in bed, surrounded by his family," Ramza answered. "I can't imagine he would have wanted it any other way."

"No," the man said, "I can't imagine he would, either."

* * *

Delita struggled to stay silent as Princess Ovelia's 'advisors' bickered over her claim to the throne. After the death of Larg and the destruction of his armies, Orinas could no longer militarily support a claim to the throne; there was little to challenge the forces Delita had marshaled together with the help of the Church and the remains of the Nanten forces. But to keep their support, they all had to believe that he was malleable, that he would be a weak puppet who danced on their strings. 

Delita had no choice but to play along… until he was sitting on the throne. Even then, he could not simply assert his authority. There was a long list of kings deposed a matter of weeks after coronation because they thought that title and trappings made the ruler. Delita was not so stupid. But he was not weak, either. And he certainly was not the Church's dog.

His gaze traveled down the table to Ovelia, who sat in an even deeper silence than Delita. They had fought again that morning; she had accused him of manipulating her, and he had accused her of being coy. Delita had the feeling that she would never trust him. During a lull in the conversation, Delita stood, drawing all eyes to him. "I'm afraid I need a constitutional," Delita said. "Perhaps we should adjourn this meeting until later, when the heat of the day isn't making us say things we don't mean." There were a few grumbles around the table, but he knew that the momentum of the argument was fading and that they wanted a break as much as he did. He ducked out of the tent, and waved away the two men who stood up as they saw him. "As you were," he said.

He strolled through the encampment, idly kicking at stones and listening to snatches of conversation. Most of the soldiers in the camp were worried about their wives, or the next battle, or who had taken their latest week's pay in a game of dice. It would have been nice to live so simply again. But here he had power, intrigue, and more money at his disposal than he had any will to spend. _What did you get, Ramza?_

He ducked into his personal tent, pulling the cape from his shoulders and unwinding the scarf from around his neck. He had been wearing that scarf as a part of his disguise when he defeated Zalbag Beoulve's troops southeast of Zeltennia. The look on his face had been priceless. Zalbag Beoulve could not believe that his brother's friend had defeated him so skillfully. He wore the scarf every day, to remind him of how the mighty could be toppled.

He turned toward the table to pour himself a glass of port, but found his glass already full, a few scraps of parchment sitting next to it. He dipped in his finger, scraped the bottom and sucked the port from his finger, trying to guess whether there was poison in the glass. Satisfied that he would never know if there was, he took a healthy swallow and started to sift through the notes.

"Olan is less concerned with you and more concerned with the church," Balmafula said from the shadows on the far side of the tent, where she smiled mirthlessly. "He's willing to leave you out of his papers if you're willing to give him some sort of protection."

"Any protection I'd give him would have to be under the table," Delita said quietly, knocking back the rest of his glass. "I'm not strong enough to start overtly defying the Church."

"You will be soon," Balmafula said, sauntering forward, her short brown dress given up in favor of a longer, darker number. "Especially with the divisions growing inside the Church."

"Do tell," Delita said, pouring himself another glass of port and one for his 'guest', "unless you came here to generate mystery and speculation." He took a sip, leaned over the map table, and narrowed his eyes. She leaned in close, her face only a foot or so from his, her features grim.

"Funeral's death has caused a schism between those who were loyal to the responsible parties, and those who had no time for Vormav and his little coterie. Leadership of the Church is in doubt; everyone wants a puppet in the high seat, and everyone wants to be pulling the strings. In a month or so, the Church may be so concerned with stabilizing itself that the puppet masters may not be able to keep you where they want you."

"Then maybe it's time to make my move," Delita said quietly, brushing his fingers against the shape of the Germonik Scriptures in his pocket. "Tell Olan I'll give him protection if he needs it, and immunity from my armies and enforcers. In exchange, he will-"

"He wants protection for Ramza Beoulve," Balmafula said, her voice falling to a whisper.

"Ramza Beoulve is dead," Delita said, before he could even consider his reasons for lying. "He died fighting against Kalian, Rowel, Balk and Vormav."

"Where?" Balmafula demanded, edging closer.

"Orbonne Monastery." All the intelligence he could gather suggested that Vormav and his cohorts disappeared there, and that Ramza followed them in. That Ramza had come out alive said that Vormav probably had not.

"Then…" Balmafula met Ramza only once, and had never really developed an opinion about the man, but Delita and Olan's feelings were clear about him. Delita hoped that his lies would make Ramza safer.

"They're dead. In that, Ramza succeeded. As for the rest of his army, those who weren't decimated have disappeared."

"We've heard reports that he's moved west, through southern Ivalice."

"Rumors. I had his body buried myself."

"Why not tell the Church?" Balmafula asked. "Why not take credit for his death?"

"Maybe I just haven't gotten around to it," Delita said wryly. She arched her brow, and the Holy Knight chuckled. "As long as the Church never finds him, he'll always be a thorn in their side, even if he never does anything to them again. If the Church were to learn of his death, he would disappear into their history as another evil doer punished."

"You never think of anyone but yourself, do you?" She asked angrily. "It's all about whom you want to punish or spite, or who you want to reward, or who you want something from. You're a selfish bastard."

"Considering the amount of trouble I went through to fake your death, I would think you'd know better," Delita growled quietly, "but since-" he didn't have time to finish his sentence before she leaned forward, grabbed a handful of his hair and kissed him, passionately and deeply. She pulled away, breathless, and turned toward the opening of the tent, picking up a cloak she had left lying across a chair.

"I wish I'd never met you," she said huskily, her hands shaking with some combination of overwhelming emotions.

"I think everyone feels that way, given a little time." She threw her cloak over her shoulders, drew the hood up, and stormed out; Delita could hear her demanding an escort from one of the Holy Knight's personal guards. Delita took a sip of port, flipping through the notes she had left behind, and for the thousandth time wondered if being king was really worth all that the last two years had cost him.

* * *

Ramza's sword spun and flashed, its edge finding Altima three times in the five strikes he launched. The celestial being reeled, drew back- and screamed as Agrias finally closed the range enough to score a hit with her Holy Explosion ability. Orlandu and Beowulf were almost close enough to hit, and Meliadoul was seeing Alma to a safe corner. Ramza turned his eyes up to the archangel and drew back his sword for another blow. He turned his eyes up to the being, met its gaze, and for a moment almost pitied the thing. 

Almost.

Ramza leapt, not bothering to attempt a feint but simply driving his blade into the chest of the thing. He felt it swipe at him, felt the archangel tear his flesh open and draw his blood. But he drove the sword through its chest to the hilt, heard it screem in agony, felt it shudder as he twisted the blade. Altima wrenched away from him, tearing the sword from his hands as he crashed to the ground.

"I will… kill you!" The archangel screamed in impotent rage, spittle and blood flying from its lips. Ramza pushed himself to his feet, preparing to make a grab for his sword, when the thing's eyes flashed and turned upon him.

"More… power," it said breathlessly, its eyes becoming bright with unholy light, the veins and arteries in its arms and face beginning to pulse and turn white. Ramza backed away, his eyes fixed on the thing, consumed with the inability to do anything. For a moment, the squire was consumed by the certainty that he was about to die; then light, bright and hellish and fierce, swallowed him.

Ramza fell for what felt like centuries. He could see the others falling as well, Alma and Agrias and Orlandu, all of them. He fell, and as the darkness was swallowing them, he felt a pulse. As though his heart had risen up into his brain, his head pounded and his temples began to ache, and the Aries Holy Stone he kept in his tunic, underneath his armor, began to warm and then to grow hot. Behind his eyes, he felt-

The world opened, and he fell through into everywhere and nowhere.

* * *

Ramza remembered falling into the yawning grace of salvation and thought he was waking up on the slopes of a hill near Orbonne Monastery again, listening to the waves of the nearby lake ebb and flow. The sound of those waves lingered longest; even as he realized he was in a pile of hay, staring up at the sky. The stars were beginning to twinkle, and the sun was sinking below the horizon. 

"We're almost to the city," Carn said, We'll probably get there in half an hour or so."

"How long have I been sleeping?" Ramza asked.

"A couple of hours." Carn answered. "You probably needed it." Ramza glanced down at his shoulder, tugged his tunic away to look at the wound. It was pink and tender, but a potion from the last village had healed it nicely. He sat up and saw the city of Gariland approaching. "There's a chest, back there," the old man said, "it's got some of my old clothes in there- there's a green tunic and a floppy green hat that should fit you, and a pair of brown pants that belonged to my son." Ramza began to shrug himself out of his blood shirt and torn, dirtied pants he was wearing.

"Is there a good place to put my sword?" Ramza asked, and the old man glanced back at him.

"Put it on. Sometimes farm families have swords; just look awkward with it. You know? Act like when you first started wearing one." Ramza chuckled and fastened the scabbard to his back.

As they reached the gate, the sun was below the horizon and the road was lit by lamp and torchlight from the gate and the wall. Guards were posted on either side of the gate, wearing armor, swords, and shields. When the wagon pulled up to them, Ramza felt his heart seize up for a brief moment before the tension passed. This happened before every battle, but Ramza hoped that this time, things would end peacefully.

"State your origin and purpose," one of the guards said, examining both Carn and Hugh.

"From a farm east of Igros," the old man said, "headed south toward Pont Mar. Just staying the night."

"Where'd you get the sword, kid?" one of the guards said, grinning. "Steal it off a merchant's guard?"

"I didn't steal anything!" Ramza said, trying to sound indignant. "We paid a merchant for it, with our own money." The guards chuckled, and the first guard waved them through.

"Well, kid, you look like you've got a princess to save and a kingdom to defend, so we won't keep you. Don't draw your sword, kid," the guard said, "unless you want to see us again."

Ramza refrained from telling him that he'd already saved the princess and that there was nothing more he could do for the kingdom, but he simply frowned and replied, "I won't." The wagon rumbled into motion again, and the two of them entered Gariland unhindered.

"Good show," Carn said quietly as they left the guards behind. "Maybe you should find a theatre and take up acting."

"If you'd grown up with my brother, you'd have learned about acting and deception, too…" Ramza said, a bit distantly. "He was the best."

"I imagine that's true," Carn said, nibbling at the stem of his pipe. "I imagine that's true."


	4. Chapter Four

Four

The purse fell at Agrias's feet, and the woman glanced down at it curiously. "That should be enough to keep you, Lavian, and Alicia for months. I don't know where you'd go, but this is the time to go there." Ramza approached from the darkness that pooled between the campfires and the stockades where the chocobos were tied up. Agrias glanced at it distastefully, and smoothed back Borneo's feathers before turning toward the Squire.

"Now you're being ridiculous," Agrias said, throwing her saddlebags over her shoulder. "You need the three of us now more than ever. Or do you think you can push on alone, now the Church is interested in you? I heard what happened today," Agrias said, "with the Heresy Examiner. You weren't just named a heretic; you had armed and veteran knights templar come for you. If Everett and Rad hadn't been planning to meet you at the city gates-"

"You're Ovelia's bodyguard," Ramza cut in, "and I'm not chasing after Ovelia anymore. I can't afford to. If you want to help her, you can't keep following me around."

"You stand in darkness," Agrias said suddenly, making Ramza blink in surprise. "Your family's rejected you, your brother won't even hear your counsel. You've made enemies of the Hokuten and the Nanten both, and earned yourself the title of Heretic. I told you at the execution site in Lionel- I believe in you." Agrias came closer, and suddenly Ramza felt uncomfortably hot. Their eyes met and locked, and the awkwardness that had lurked between them since Agrias had escaped from Draclau floated to the surface. "Think on it," Agrias said, pushing past him. He turned to watch her back as she retreated to the campfire, shouting orders at Rad and Lavian to clean the pots.

* * *

Ramza woke in the deep black of night, his eyes fluttering open. He was in a bed, soft and warm, in an inn in Gariland Magic City. He hadn't thought about Rad in a long time; they'd buried Rad after the battle against Velius, at Riovanes Castle. Rad was neither the first nor the last of the soldiers Ramza had buried. There were a dozen names Ramza would carry with him until the day he died. But the last thing he needed was to lay in bed feeling guilty. 

The squire slipped out of his bed and dressed quietly; he dressed himself in the clothing Carn gave him, bundling his own clothes together. He belted his sword to his back, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and slipped into the washroom.

Ramza lit a single candle, and quietly mixed together the last of the herbs he'd bought in Dorter, rubbing through his hair until it looked as black as it could in the mirror. He washed his hair, dried it, and blew out the candle. He slipped back into the room, and felt his way through the dark room back to the bed. He counted a thousand crowns out by the pale light of the moon, and left them in the floppy hat on top of the man's pack. He'd already paid for the room, but he felt he owed the man for helping a wanted man.

While the other man still slept, he quietly exited the room, made his way down through the inn and out onto the empty street. There were street lamps to light the city, but the alleys and the sky above was black as jet. Ramza slipped into the stable, unaware that he was being watched.

* * *

"He just entered the stables," Lyci said, and Marquis Ventram nodded, signaling to his men. He waved the breathless thief away (she'd never robbed a soul, but Ventram knew how to make use of quick hands and fast feet) and eased his blade from its scabbard. Unless Ramza took the north or west gate, he would have to pass through that street; Ventram didn't think he was passing north, and he knew the heretic wouldn't go west again. That left the east gate. 

Passing around the squire's description had been easy. Jack Tall, a broad-chested Knight with an unbelievably soft and quiet voice who had fought with him since the Fifty Years War, was a master with charcoal and had drawn three good sketches that Ventram's troops had been passing around town. But when they'd found him, they hadn't done anything; Marquis Ventram was out of his jurisdiction, which meant that he had to be circumspect about taking the Heretic Ramza.

They heard the slap of a chocobo's feet, and Marquis Ventram peered around the corner. The dark silhouette of a cloaked rider approached; the hood was thrown back, and Ventram could see the rider's black hair and fair skin, and the face was just as he remembered it. His face was harder than the first time they'd spoken, though, edged with the determined face of a battle veteran. He may have been young, but he certainly looked like the son of Balbanes. Ventram had fought with Balbanes, once, had been a captain under him during the Battle of Halash, on the frontier of Ivalice. The boy had his father in his face.

As the rider passed down the street, his men flattened out against the walls of the alley they were hiding in, and he could see them do the same in the opposite alley. As the rider passed, he stopped and turned to look straight at Ventram, blinking in surprise. "Nice morning," the rider said calmly, and Ventram nodded.

"Looks to be a nice day," Ventram agreed, calmly exiting the alley. His men began to filter out behind and across from him, closing off the way behind the Heretic. He could see them closing the way in front of him, too, from the other two alleys he'd hidden his troops.

"I don't suppose I can convince you to let me go, since I'm not in your jurisdiction," Ramza said, shaking his cloak away from the hilt of his sword.

"I don't think you can," Marquis Ventram said, "but you can call for help if you want."

The heretic smiled ruefully, yanking his sword free of its scabbard. Ventram's men drew back, drawing their own swords in turn. Ramza screamed, thrusting his sword high, before charging at the line of men between him and the gate. Ventram charged, his lean frame drawing ahead of his men as one hand ripped his own cloak from his shoulders.

* * *

Ramza's blood was pumping, and his sword spun and flashed. They were good; they had experience and discipline behind them. But Ramza had spent the better part of two years fighting the toughest opponents in Ivalice. Boco kicked and bit, snapped and side-stepped as Ramza plunged into the fray. Three cuts drew blood from Ramza, none of them deep but all of them enough to sting. 

The lanky man who had been pursuing him since Igros closed the range between them, sword drawn back to strike. Ramza twisted in his saddle, threw his hand out and cast the most powerful fire spell he knew; flames blossomed and exploded among three of them.

Even as Ramza was turning back to the men before him, two men managed to lay hands on him and drag him from the saddle. The squire screamed, slashing out with his sword, and one pair of hands drew away with a strangled cry as Ramza's sword took his eye. Boco snapped and squawked, kicked out at men, dodged and counter-attacked when they swung at him with their swords. Ramza drew himself up right-

The air thrummed with energy, but Ramza had no time to escape the lightning that forked and split the ground under him, turning his vision white and his skin to fire. He came to his senses only a moment later, and saw that he and Boco weren't the only ones sent sprawling by the force of the bolt spell. Boco was already on his feet, squawking indignantly, smoke rising from his feathers. Ramza crawled on his belly to the chocobo, snaked his hand through the chocobo's stirrup, and slapped its flank with his open palm. Boco twisted around to look at the squire inquiringly, and Ramza slapped it again, harder. The chocobo started forward at a slow pace, then broke into a gallop down the dim street. It dragged him almost five hundred yards down the winding road before he managed to pull himself into the saddle.

He turned into a narrow alley, still trying to catch his breath. He slipped his sword back into its scabbard and tugged his cloak into place. It wasn't possible to slip a full squad out of the city without going through the gates, but he and Boco could get through the South Grove.

It took him the better part of two hours to wind his way through back alleys and streets to the South Grove, a public park that had been a part of a nobleman's estate two centuries before. As cadets of the Gariland Academy, he and Delita had slipped out of the city through there several times; he smiled nostalgically as came around a corner and saw the trees.

Ramza worked his way through the tall apple and orange trees to the splintered gap in the rock wall, hidden by the small wood that crowded up against the south wall of the city. He smiled, clucked at the chocobo and led him out of Gariland Magic City.

* * *

Meliadoul's cloak was thrown off, and her bare arms glistened with sweat as her wooden sword clacked against her opponent's. Agrias wore a plain brown tunic that was already damp in the warm noon sun. Their swords were a blur of precisely timed movement and rhythmic concussion; there was a rhythm to every fight, evident to anyone with a trained ear. That wasn't to say that battle wasn't chaos; only fools and amateurs thought that there was anything orderly to battle. Meliadoul had seen even simple plans disolve into disorder. 

Meliadoul's blade struck Agrias's near to the hilt, close enough the she managed to snatch the other woman's wrist and twist, tearing her hand free of the wooden sword. Agrias hissed and swung one-handed with her sword, forcing Meliadoul to lean back to dodge. Agrias took advantage of the new momentum and pushed toward the Divine Knight, her sword a flurry of blows that Meliadoul struggled to defend herself from.

Realizing there was little more that she could do, Meliadoul waited until Agrias made another over-head strike and caught her sword again, close to the hilt; she forced the sword up and brought her knee into the Holy Knight's stomach. The woman grunted loudly, doubling slightly as Meliadoul held her opponent's sword high and pulled her own sword back for a strike. "Yield," she said, forcing Agrias's sword even higher to illustrate the enormous opening. Agrias nodded, and Meliadoul released her, panting. After twenty minutes of probing and careful swordplay, they'd both made sloppy mistakes. They had a hard time holding on to their tempers around each other. Then again, their first meeting had been a sword fight.

"You like that over-head strike too much," Meliadoul said breathlessly. "You pull your front leg back before you strike, lose your momentum-"

"I know," Agrias said, "I've been trying to break that habit for years."

"Then break it." Meliadoul said coldly. "You've got a lot of skill, but you don't have enough discipline."

"Neither do you," Agrias said, narrowing her eyes. "You telegraph your thrust, pause for too long before you strike. It's why the opening's always gone by the time your sword gets there." In truth, the matches between them were usually fairly even, and Meliadoul only won half. Agrias stalked over to a fallen log where her waterskin and handkerchief were. She wiped the sweat from her brow and took a long drink of water before tossing the sac to Meliadoul. The two of them walked in silence from the quiet cherry grove, watching Worker 8 carry lumber back to the barn where Mustadio was gathering materials for the airship he talked about building. It would take years, he said, of design and testing and construction; but he'd claimed to have spent enough time in the airship graveyard, looking at engines and hulls and suchwhat, to understand the basics of how they worked. Agrias doubted he could ever make such a thing work, but they all needed something to do. Surprisingly, Everett and Orlandu had taken to preparing the fields; he didn't think they were the farming types but Orlandu had expressed an interest and Everett, who had grown up on a farm, seemed to know the ins and outs. Lavian and Alicia trained some, though not nearly as much as Agrias and Meliadoul. So far as she knew, Malak and Rafa sat around reading, and Beowulf… well, Reis and Beowulf were waiting until Ramza returned before asking the local mayor to marry them. As for the rest…

"Tam and the Oracle are looking for you," Laina said as they passed, straightening. Agrias nodded, glancing at the ground where she'd been kneeling. There was a meter stick there, with white markers every so often, as though she were measuring something. A glance at Meliadoul showed she had no idea what it was about, and Agrias shrugged. They ducked into the cool air of the farmhouse, a sprawling structure that had belonged to Cidolfas Orlandu's family for the better part of a century.

The Oracle was actually named Thera, named so because she had been an oracle since they recruited her and had refused to practice any other trades since- in fact, no one was sure she knew how to do anything else. "I had a vision," she said plainly.

"Did you," Agrias said dryly, causing Meliadoul to snort with restrained laughter. The Oracle had been predicting that Lavian would die very soon for almost a year, and her other wild prophecies usually failed to come true. But she was sweet as anyone, and serious as the day was long; no one seemed able to tell her that her 'visions' were rubbish.

"You have to find Ramza. He's in danger," Thera insisted, gesturing to the divination board that was spread out in front of her. Agrias folded her arms across her chest, frowning. Meliadoul simply snorted.

"Anyone else?" Meliadoul asked pleasantly. "Any imminent horrible deaths we should know about?"

"Lavian," Thera said. "Lavian is going to die. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. You have to keep her away from water."

"We'll be sure to do that. And we're going to find Ramza too," Agrias said, winking at Meliadoul. She clapped the woman on the shoulder and the two of them set out toward the barn, where Orlandu was probably trying to eject Mustadio again. Meliadoul narrowed her eyes.

"You aren't considering going after Ramza," Meliadoul said unbelievably. "The Oracle hasn't made a prediction come true since she said you'd burn dinner last night." Agrias scowled, and Meliadoul continued. "And you remember what Ramza said."

"I remember Ramza leaving me in charge of the group until he got back. As for the Oracle… Even a broken clock is right twice a day, and it's as good an excuse as any. Meliadoul, my gut tells me that Ramza is in danger. I could take Everett, Malak and Orlandu and meet him on the road if he's okay. If he's not- do you really want to leave him to his feet if he gets captured by the church?"

"If he's captured, they'll execute him immediately," Meliadoul hissed.

"They'll take him to Murond, they'll have a tribunal, and then they'll hang him like Saint Ajora. He's too big a heretic for a small-time death." Agrias smiled mirthlessly, shouldering her wooden sword. "In the meantime, I can at least find out whether he's been caught or not." Meliadoul grunted, spinning her practice sword once before laying it in the crook of her arm.

"Fair enough," The Divine Knight said, "but not Everett. You'll take me." Agrias smirked, and Meliadoul continued with a grimace. "There's a good chance no official reports linked me to Ramza, which means I might have some pull among Church officials. Don't get me wrong, Everett is a good soldier- but he doesn't have as much power- or battle experience- as I do."

Agrias stopped, and the two of them locked eyes for a moment. Finally the Holy Knight smiled, and waved her along. "Pack your things, then," Agrias said, her walk purposeful and confident as she moved again, "because we'll leave before dawn.

* * *

Delita was poring over a map of Gallione in the library of Lesalia Imperial City when Bishop Kanbabrif entered, his robes flowing, his eyes sharp and observant. He'd been in Funeral's pocket for years before the High Pontiff's death, and still seemed to plot and scheme just as he had beneath Funeral. 

Kanbabrif was performing the wedding ceremony between Delita and Ovelia; the two of them had worked together for a long time, and were ostensibly on good terms.

Delita loathed the man.

Kanbabrif was the second son of a noble family who believed that the eldest son inherited the titles and any children after became either soldiers or priests. Kanbabrif didn't have the stomach for soldiering. His ingratiating smile made Delita's teeth grind together. "I hear that the ceremony has been arranged for tomorrow," Kanbabrif drawled, and Delita forced himself to smile.

"Indeed. The coronation will be an hour after that."

"Good, good," Kanbabrif said, rubbing his hands together. "I'll see to it you have your rest, then. Tomorrow?" Delita frowned, wondering why the priest had come in for such a brief visit. He poured himself a glass of port, peering down at one of the cities. The map had been drawn up a few hundred years before, and several of the cities had different names. Then again, he hadn't taken this map because it was the most accurate map in the Imperial Capital's library; these maps were where Balmafula left her cyphers, which was how Delita interpreted the encrypted messages she sent him. She was clever, that one. He wished her death had not been faked; an agent inside the Church would have been invaluable.

His ears caught the faint creaking of the door, but his training kept him from stiffening. He strained his ears for footsteps, taking a deep drink of port, planning all the ways he could get to his sword before the man stabbed him in the back. His sword, a thing of bright mythril and fine gold decorations on the hilt, lay on the other side of the table, hilt facing away from him. He took a deep breath, exhaled-

-and rolled across the table, tearing the map as he went, coming down on his feet at the other side of the table. He grabbed the sword, planted his foot on the table, and kicked as hard as he could, slamming the heavy wooden furniture against the man. It toppled, shattering the crystal decanter of port and ruining the ancient Gallione map. Delita ripped his sword from its leather-and-gold scabbard, hissing softly as the man took ripped his own cloak off, brandishing his sword. He whispered a few words of prayer in the old language, and sidestepped the table until there was nothing between him and Delita.

It only took a few steps by the man to tell Delita that the table had hurt him, maybe bruised his hip. The Holy Knight smiled, twisting his sword and making a cutting motion through the air with it. He muttered the ritual words, and the man lurched backward as ball lightning flashed and crackled. The man reeled, and Delita did it again until the man toppled to one knee. The Holy Knight closed the distance between them and kicked him in the solar plexus, driving him onto his back.

A tiny voice in his head told him to spare the man, to wring all the information from him that he could, but Delita knew the man would kill himself before he talked. Delita decided to spare him the effort, lifted his sword, and brought it down again, cleaving the man's head from his shoulders. The head rolled away, blood splattered across the floor, and Delita heaved a deep breath from his lungs as he asked himself what else he was in danger of. He glanced down. In the pool of blood and spinal humor was a Glabados sigil, nearly drowned in crimson, its silver and black a stark contrast to all the color around it. Glabados. He reached down and picked it up. Despite all the blood on it, he wrapped the chain around his wrist, letting the pendant dangle into his palm.

Delita strode to his satchel and hauled out the tome he had been keeping with him, the first of three copies made by a printer who had already sworn fealty to him. He threw open the great wooden doors of the room and strode out, sword still dripping blood, the necklace wrapped around his wrist, the tome tucked under his arm. His bodyguards had been dismissed; Delita didn't even bother to wonder who'd done it. They were probably running into assassins themselves.

As he swept down the hallway, servants and soldiers alike drew away from him with wide eyes, glancing from the bloody sword to the bloodied tunic to the book; no one even noticed that his eyes could have been carved from stone. He reached Bishop Kanbabrif's room and kicked it in, not bothering to open it. To his surprise, the Bishop was in there, staring at him with wide eyes. "You-"

Delita did not give him a moment to speak. He grabbed the bishop by the lapel of his robes and hauled him into the air, throwing him at a coffee table surrounded by four tall-backed wooden chairs. The table collapsed under him, and the priest groaned piteously. Delita snarled, picked up a chair, and smashed it to kindling across the man's chest. He sank down again, whimpering, and the Holy Knight (what a title that was, now!) knelt beside him, seizing him again by the lapels. "You wanted me to be scared," Delita growled, "so you sent a half-rate assassin you thought I could defeat. You wanted me to think you could come for me any time, made sure I knew who it was that sent him." He held up his right hand, dangling the pendant for the man to see. The bishop stared at it with animal-terrified eyes. "Well, I'm not scared." Delita hauled the man to his feet and shoved him against the wall, bending close so that he could whisper into the man's ear.

"I'm not scared; in fact, it's time for you to be scared of me. If the Church doesn't back away and stop trying to bully me, they're going to be able to find copies of the Germonik Scriptures in every library and from every salesman who carries text. This one here?" Delita edged away, bent down to pick up the copy of the book he'd brought, and shoved it under the man's nose. "This is just a copy. If anything happens to me, the copies get made and the real copy goes on display. Maybe even a foreward from me, talking about what really happened in Murond the day Funeral died." If it was even possible for the man to whiten further, he did. "Tell the Church that the time for honoring itself is now brought to a close. The best the Church can hope for is peaceful coexistence with the throne; if I go down, I'll drag Glabados Church with me." He leaned in close, growling. "I'm no one's puppet, anymore," Delita said, pushing away from the priest. He turned his back and stalked away, dropping the book amidst the rubble of the furniture. "Have a complementary copy," Delita said in disgust, picking up his sword and slamming the door on the way out. But once the door was closed, and he was walking alone through the corridor, a grim smile curved the edges of his lips. He was no one's dog, anymore.


End file.
